Battling Brooklyn
by Mondie
Summary: as i look back on that day, perhaps i should have known better. but even i didn't think it would be taken as far as it was.
1. Hindsight

Battling Brooklyn

Chapter 1: Hindsight

            As I look back on that day, perhaps I should have known better. But even I didn't think it would be taken as far as it was. Dave always says that's my worst quality—my 'inability to see future outcomes' or something of the sort. Dave always seems to think himself high above the rest of us, at least brains-wise. Too bad the kid doesn't know the blade of a knife from its hilt. I'm sure that with a little training, he might be half-useful in the fighting-strategies department.

            Dave's my selling partner, and one of my closest friends. But this story isn't about him. It's not even about me, really. Sure, I'm there for a lot of it (and what I'm not there for, I'll probably make up. That, Dave tells me, is one of my _best qualities—my 'talent' for lying), but, for once, a story I'm telling doesn't center around me. It's the story of one of my newsboys—and they _are_ my newsboys, make no mistake about it, because I am their leader—and the insatiably rude, war-crazed ruler of Brooklyn, Sean "Spot" Conlon._

            Before I get to our protagonist in this story, my newsie, I'll let you know a little about Spot. Spot is the typical Brooklyn leader, which is the borough that's been known for its fighting since probably the beginning of time. The first Brooklyners ever were missing all their teeth from just sitting around punching each other out. Okay, that I made up. But it makes for a good story, eh? Anyhow, back to Spot. He's the youngest Brooklyn leader in a while—maybe forever. Only fourteen years old, and short and skinny for his age too. I remember the first time I met him, I thought it was pretty comical that he was the leader of the most feared borough of New York City. I mean, just looking at the kid, you'd think that he wouldn't be able to _lift a plank or a pipe, let alone use one in combat. I was shortly proved wrong, when he took a swing at me and ended up throwing me headfirst off his docks into the chilly waters of the Hudson River. Then he whipped out his slingshot and started chucking pebbles into the water, hitting my head whenever I surfaced. By the time I finally got back up on the docks, I was bleeding from eleven different holes on my face and shoulders. Ever since then, we've been great friends. (C'mon, follow me here—do you really think I'd want someone that powerful as an _enemy_?) Spot loves thinking he's "above" me, and insists upon calling me by idiotic nicknames. He's the one who came up with my current alias, Jack. He declared firmly that I was as stupid as some kid he'd heard about in a nursery rhyme, called Little Jack Horner, who just sat in a corner eating pie and making dumb comments. To appease him, I took on the name Jack Kelly (Kelly was my mother's name). So, you see, Spot and I have a strange, and often strained, friendship. But when the whiskey's flowing and the cards are dealing, do we __ever have a great time together!_

            Spot takes his job as Brooklyn leader quite seriously. Last summer, I was actually surprised that he came to the aid of my NYC plot, Manhattan. Spot's not exactly known as being charitable. But ever since he helped us all out over that idiot Pulitzer and his whining counterpart Hearst, we've been powerful allies for each other. A few times Queens and Harlem tried to boil over into our sections, but our two boroughs combined always fought them back down. Things had been great with Spot, incredibly exciting and wonderful. So maybe I should've thought twice that day.

            It was early June, year 1900. My youngest boy, Slider, who tries to make up for his youth by helping Snitch spy, rushed up to me. He has a habit of being overexcited, and that day was no exception. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were bright and shiny. "Jack! Jack!" he cried, tugging at my shirt. "Dere's a new boy, an' 'e wantsa join da 'Hattan newsies!"

            I looked past him, and saw the uncertain boy standing behind him. This new boy was shuffling his feet, and looking everywhere but at me. I was a bit confused at first—I thought perhaps Slider had gotten the boy mixed up with someone else. Surely someone of this kid's enormous bulk and size was a Brooklyn newsie, maybe with a message from Spot?

            As I moved closer to him, he pulled his hat off his head and began turning it in circles within his hands, his sweaty fingers making damp smudges all around the brim. "Where ya from?" I asked, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. Spot would _never put up with anyone so skittish around a borough he looked down upon as much as he did __us. (Make no mistake—allies or no, Spot still looked down on us. He always has, he always will.)_

            The kid cleared his throat. He studied his hat in his hands before answering softly, "Joisey."

            "Joisey?" I repeated, incredulously. "Ya shoah you'se don' wanna go ta Brooklyn?"

            Now it was his turn to look confused. "Why would I wanna go ta Brooklyn?"

            "Cuz," I answered. "Ya look like yer from Brooklyn. Yer all big an' stuff." I shrugged, and turned to Dave, who was standing nearby. "Don' 'e look like 'e's from Brooklyn, Dave?"

            Dave gave a quick shrug and a nod of his head before going back to whatever the hell he was doing. Unimportant brain stuff, I suspect.

            "JACKIE BOY!" The shout was from nearly a block away, yet it was crystal clear. I laughed in spite of myself, and turned to greet the loudmouth, who was, I was sure, undoubtedly accompanied by his other half. Sure enough, Mush—the most cheerful kid you will ever meet, though I'm not quite sure why, because he's always poor on account of the fact that he can't sell newspapers worth anything—and his best friend, Kid Blink, were walking toward us.

            Mush stopped a few feet away from the new kid and me, as if a dog sniffing out new territory. "Who's dis, Jackie Boy?" he asked, his eyes wide.

            "Mush, dis is…" I looked back at the boy.

            "William," he supplied.

            I shook my head. "Mush, dis is… Brooklyn. Brooklyn, dis is Mush, an' Kid Blink's over dere."

            And so marks the beginning of my end. _Why_ did I have to name the kid Brooklyn?

            Damn, I should have shut my mouth right then and there.

            Or maybe just not have introduced him to the loudest boy in Manhattan.

            Mush burst into hysterical laughter. "Brooklyn! BROOKLYN! Ya heah dat, Kid?"

            "Yeah," Kid Blink answered, grinning widely himself. He's the second-most cheerful kid you'll ever meet. "So wha's _Brooklyn_ doin' in 'Hattan, Jack?"

            I smiled. Their happiness is so damn infectious. They may not be able to fight at all, but that's never bothered them. "Brooklyn's gonna be joinin' us, boys. 'E comes from Joisey. An' I don' wanna heah no one callin' 'im William. Wha' kinda idiot name is dat, anyhow?"

            Kid Blink narrowed his eyebrows at me. "_My_ name is William, Jack."

            I shrugged. "Oh. Sorry, Blink."

            Mush had taken off down the street, yelling for everyone to hear that there was a new boy named Brooklyn, and he was going to be staying here in Manhattan, and Mush was pretty sure that there would be a party tonight in honor of the new guy. I shook my head. Mush always wants to have a party. I swear, I don't know how he ever finds time to sell  the few newspapers that he does, because every time I see him, he's either betting Racetrack or sitting with some giggly girl on his lap or doing acrobatic tricks with Kid Blink. Mush is a regular nutcase, all right. But his unstoppable vigor drives Spot insane, so I like to keep him around. It's nice to have a secret weapon—even if it is just a ball of spirited, excited energy—when dealing with grouchy people who could probably kill you and make it look an accident.

            Within minutes, at least fifty boys had surrounded Brooklyn, who in turn looked a bit overwhelmed. I found myself laughing so hard I got a stitch in my side and had to sit down for a good ten minutes. This kid was _scared to be in Manhattan! Lord, it __was a good thing he hadn't gone to Brooklyn. He wouldn't have lasted ten seconds._

            Meanwhile, over in the actual area of Brooklyn, Spot's chief spy, Cordon, was running his fingers through his limp black curls. "Spot, we's godda problem." He licked his lips anxiously. "Jack Kelly's defamin' da name a' Brooklyn oveh dere in 'Hattan."

            "_What?" Spot stood up so fast that his makeshift throne—an old rocking chair set high upon a crude platform—fell over behind him. "Not da holy name a' Brooklyn!" His eyes glinted maliciously as he imagined putting his boot prints all over my face. "I'll getcha back fer dis, Kelly."_

            …Okay, okay. So I made up the last two paragraphs. I wasn't over in Brooklyn to hear the actual conversation. But I'm sure Spot's eyes glinted maliciously, and I've seen his "throne", and it really wouldn't surprise me if the thing DID fall over, because it's not all that stable. But stick with me, because this story's about to go somewhere.


	2. The Meeting

**Shoutouts**! Thanks for the reviews you guys!!

**Bittersweet** :: Hoo ha, I heart your signoff! Lobster claws… hehehe! Anywhoozles, the first month or so when you don't have a diary is pure torture… than you get swept into something else ((aka ff.net)) and while you still miss the people you got to know through their diaries, you get to know new people on here too. I usually make Spot a Sean, simply because I love the name… and for some reason in my mind it fits him… ?? Ah well!

**The Omniscient Bookseller** :: Cartoon character boyfriends are some of the best… it's hard for a pencil-and-paper guy to break your heart. LOL hey you're in Newsie Justice too, right?? I'm so totally addicted to that place!! **Mondie bounces similarly to how Omni bounced in the review** Talk to ya later!

**Shortie** :: Ahhhh! You evil maker of Mush clones to screw over me and Skittles!! Hahahaha! That last MST was TOO priceless… Anywhooz. That wasn't the last of Spot's throne… it makes me laugh too hard now so I'm gonna include it every chance I get. I'm thinking he should have a portable throne that his thugs carry around for him… Port-A-Throne. Hahahaha! We simply MUST chat again, it's such fun when you and I and Skittles get in there and start arguing over who has the "real" Mush!

**studentnumber24601** :: Heh heh… making fun of Davey is one of the things I'm best at. Kinda strange, since I love the kid (Not as much as Mush, but still). Sidenotes are fun. I always kinda picture Jack as this strange guy whose brain works so fast he's constantly going off on weird little tangents… I think MY Jack should be called Hyperjack. :D Thanks for the review!

**Arlene** :: I hate when comps eat reviews. But more than likely, it was not your comp, but Cha-Cha The Review Stealing Duck. He likes to eat reviews for lunch. Thanks for all the compliments dear!!! :D :D :D :D I'm having too much fun with this story, I believe. Hehe!

**rumor** :: Haha thanks doll! I like this story… I get to make fun of Jack while having him be the narrator. It's wonderful. :D Thanks for reviewing all of my stories that you have, just on a Jack-like side note… it really means a lot to me that you're always so nice and kind! And knowing that I can count on at LEAST rumor's review is so wonderful.

**skittles** :: Heya goilie!!!!!!! **spitshake** As I was just telling Shortie, we have GOT to get in another chat with the three of us… I had so much fun the last time! LOL! Wasn't our part in Shortie's latest MST the BEST?! Mushy Darling… cutey-pie! He's all fun and oblivious in this story and I love him for it. It's sad, though, when I love my characters after I write them… right?

**misprint** :: Yeah yeah, so it's half-Jack, half-Mondie talking. LOL. I can't help that I throw myself in my writing. ;D HEY! What happened to that story you were gonna send me? Huh? HUH??? Gah! And you took off Bust… I'm so mad at you for that… **Mondie and Mush bare teeth and growl** **Then Mondie pouts** MIS! Did you know that I am sick today?? :( That means Mush and I can't snog because I don't want HIM to get sick too. He's off licking the pot we made chicken noodle soup in, though. And coloring on the kitchen walls with a purple crayon. **Mondie coughs pitifully, like Les** Gah… being sick sucks.

**Pegasus M** :: I really can't help but write Mush as hyper, because I see him as being just as wonderfully naïve as I am! LOL! Poor little dear, if it were real life he'd be scarred because of it… Yowch my throat hurts… **Mondie grumbles about pain-relieving drugs that don't work** Thanks Peggy Sue! I miss you!

**Falco Conlon** :: Hola chica! Haha, I really gotta find that story I wrote on a whim with you and Keeeeeezah in it… hahaha… you're hyperactive and hate all boys but Spot Conlon. I find it highly amusing. ^_^ LOL it's wonderful… anyhowzles. Sorry I made Mush cheat on Sera. I really don't like Sera. Or Lucy, for that matter… Maybe it's a complex where I hate all girls that I end up pairing my Mushy Darling with. That could be. Thanks for the review Falco doll!

**Problems** :: Hi! Have we met before? I don't remember anyone called Problems… Anyhow! Thanks for the review!!! Actually I haven't really decided what's gonna happen yet… I might wanna do that, huh?

**Astaldocalwen** :: LOL this is just your typical stereotyping of the newsies. Mush is unbelievably sensitive, Jack's unbelievably strange, and Spot's unbelievably angry. Hahaha! Thanks for the review!!!

**Owlhootoo2** :: What a strange name you have, Owlhootoo2! Where did you come up with it? Thanks for the review!

**Bottles** :: Mondie's not quite sure yet how Jacky-boy's gonna get out of this one… but that's what makes writing it fun! LOL! Yeah, I have a tendency to write Spot all mean and rude and moody… hmm. Strange, eh? I don't think I have *one* story in which Spot is nice and gentlemanly… unless he's trying to trick some girl into bed or something… ^_~ LOL! It's fun to be me. Thanks for the review!

And now…

Battling Brooklyn

Chapter 2: The Meeting

            The next morning, everyone was just kinda sleepy and drowsy. I had to kick at a few boys to get them moving away from the mirror… then again, one of those boys was Mush, and I _always_ gotta kick him away from the mirror. Ah well, finally the mirror was all mine, and good thing too, 'cause my hair looked a mess. I was attempting to tame it when Skittery stumbled over. He turned sideways and began looking at his profile. I was wondering if he was checking if his nose was too big (he _does have a big nose) when he pulled up his pink undershirt (used to be red, but it got faded) and inspected his stomach._

            This was strange, so I pretended not to notice, instead holding down the sides of my hair to the different sides of my head in an attempt to straighten and flatten the parts that had decided to stick straight up. Then Skittery poked me in the arm. I don't know if it's just Skittery or what, but he's always poking people, and he's got these real bony fingers, and it always _hurts. I guess it works real good for him to get peoples' attention, though._

            I swatted his finger away, and turned my eyes to meet his in the mirror expectantly. "Yeah? What do you want?" I asked him, turning my attention back to my hair after a few moments. The stubborn pieces had decided to be uncooperative _still_, and I grimaced as I tried to flatten them again.

            He was still holding up his shirt, and now he experimentally poked at himself. "Do you think I'm getting fat?" he wondered, tilting his head to the side and looking quizzically at me.

            "No," I answered matter-of-factly. "You can still see your ribs. Nah, you look just the same to me."

            Skittery shrugged. "I think I'm getting fat. And Snitch told me he thinks the same thing, even without me mentioning it to him…"

            Snitch let out a barking laugh as he walked by. "You believed me! Ya hear that, Jack? He believed me! I got ya going all crazy, didn't I, Skitts?"

            Skittery growled. "You're gonna get it for that, Snitch! I'm gonna soak ya!" And he took off after the other boy. I shook my head and looked at my reflection again. Sighing about how hopeless my hair was, I walked back to the bunkroom to fetch my cowboy hat. Luckily, what misbehaving hair was left was quickly tamed by the restrictive material of the hat.

            "Aaaaiiiieeeee!" Snitch yelled, or something sounding like that, as he ran by me and thundered down the steps leading to the street. Skittery was in hot pursuit.

            "COME BACK HERE!" Skittery cried, his voice carrying up the stairs with a wobbling quality that came from running all crazy-like down the staircase. "YOU BUM! YOU SCABBER!"

            "Heya, Jack," Mush said cheerfully, as he too walked by me, "Brooklyn looks a bit confused."

            Now up to this point I'd forgotten about the new newsboy, and now I looked around for him. He was sitting on the edge of the bunk he'd shared with Itey the night before, looking a bit dazed and, mostly, still-asleep. "BROOKLYN!" I yelled, and his head snapped up. It was almost funny. Then again, it was awful pathetic too. "What are you doing?" I continued. "You're not even dressed yet! C'mon, get moving!"

            He pulled himself all slow-like into gear and got dressed, letting out a big yawn every few minutes. I sighed. The lodging house was steadily emptying of newsies, and here I was, waiting for some slow bum! "Get moving!" I tried again. "All the papes will be gone." Finally, he was ready, and we left the lodging house, him still half-asleep and me grumbling about how nobody's got no respect no more.

            Luckily, we got some papes and went out selling them. It was a pretty good morning, too—we nearly sold out, even with a leading headline so bad it made me cringe: New Book Is Talk of City. Sometimes it's amazing how bad our headlines can be. I mean, with all the money Pulitzer makes, couldn't he at least hire someone who can _write_ headlines? Hell, I'd write headlines, and good ones too, for half of what he probably pays the idiot who comes up with them now!

            It was probably ten in the morning when I got the great idea to go showing off Brooklyn in… well, Brooklyn. Remember how I said I wasn't any good at thinking ahead? Yeah, this is a good example of that. I grabbed Davey by the collar, Brooklyn by the arm, and then brought along Mush and Blink for a few laughs (can I help that the crazy kids are the most fun?).

            "I don't wanna walk," Blink whined as soon as we set out. "Ain't there another way?"

            I gave him my best I'm-the-leader-don't-go-against-me look. "Are you kidding?" I asked him. "What way do you suggest, Blink?"

            "Well, we could hop a carriage, or… or something," Mush suggested.

            I looked around, and immediately got an idea. Skittery was walking by us at the moment, holding about thirty papes which he hadn't sold yet. He tipped his hat at us in a salute. I grinned in response, then called loudly, "Charlie! Did you just steal THIRTY papes?"

            You see, it just so happened that we had stopped next to this cart that sells papes. The horse in front of it was whinnying and making this GOD-AWFUL racket, so the owner had been trying to get it to be quiet and not paying attention to his wares. Now he looked up, and saw Skittery standing there with thirty papes. I smirked to myself.

            "Hey! You! Charlie!" the man yelled, and ran at Skitts. Skittery got this real scared look in his eye, and glared daggers at me as he took off running. The man followed, determined to get back his thirty stolen papers.

            "Hurry up!" I shouted, and the five of us boys left jumped up on his newspaper cart. I grabbed the reins and whipped them hard across the horse's back. The animal had a fit and started galloping away down the street. Of course, it just _couldn't be a smooth ride, because the horse was so spooked we were thrown this way and that. Davey was half-hanging out of the left side of the carriage by the time we neared the Brooklyn Bridge, and Brooklyn was cross-eyed._

            "Skitts is gonna be real mad at you," Mush said in an awed voice, his eyes as wide as the wheels on the cart we were riding in. "That guy was so angry…"

            I shrugged. "Skitts was telling me _just_ this morning how he thinks he needs to exercise more." And yeah, in a way it was true! You can't argue with me on that point. "Besides, it's not like the man'll ever be able to find him again anyway! He'll be looking for a _Charlie. And Skittery's name ain't Charlie."_

            The chatter kept up. Then a weird kinda hush fell over us as we rode into Brooklyn. It's not a nice place there. The four boys in the back of the cart all kinda huddled together, peering out cautiously from atop their thrones of whatever papers hadn't escaped from the cart during our wild ride. I remained in my seat up front, clutching on the reins. If this were a fairy tale, then the lighting would change from the sunny, cloud-filled skies of Manhattan to the gloomy, rainy horizons hanging over Brooklyn. Of course, it really looked just the same as Hattan, but there were _some_ subtle differences: Brooklyn's even dirtier, and there's more homeless people, and of course their newsies are just about three times the size of any Hattan newsie.

            And now. Yeah, that's right. We were approaching Spot's docks, the small land Spot governs as his own. And I still suspected nothing, because I can't look ahead. I really gotta work on that, ya know?

            When we got there, I slowed the horse and then we all climbed out. Brooklyn was really trembling now, I think mostly because the lack of chatter on behalf of Mush and Blink unnerved him. Davey looked the most relaxed of the four, because he's met Spot more than the others and thinks he knows him. I don't have the heart to tell him that he doesn't know even a tiny piece of what Spot's capable of.

            There were about thirty other fellas we had to push our way past on the path to find Spot. This was regular, but I did happen to notice that they seemed to growl even more menacingly than usual. I was leading the group, and everyone in Brooklyn knows me, so I wasn't even getting the worst of the glares—those were restricted for the four boys following me. Mush told me later that he'd never seen anyone look so threatening or goddamn scary before, even from Brooklyn. And since Mush can't lie to save his life (here I will point out the fact that he'd only sold thirteen papers that day before giving up, because he couldn't improve the headline even a little), I gotta believe him.

            When we got to Spot's room, he was sitting on that stupid throne of his. (Going along with what I said last time, he must have set it back up again.) The room was all dark and stuffy, but then Spot does like to make his victims—er, guests—as uncomfortable as possible. It took me a minute to notice that Spot was not only glowering in the darkness, but it was the very kind of angry glowering that you do _not_ wanna see cross Spot's face in your presence.

            "Jack." The absence of stupid nicknames set me back a minute. The absolute chill in his voice also scared me a bit. See, I was still thinking things were great between us, and I couldn't wait to let him in on the wonderful joke of Brooklyn's name. I figured Spot was just putting on an act to intimidate the new boy in our company. But Spot ain't one to be downright rude when it can be avoided, and so he acknowledged the others in similar fashion and coldness as to me: "Blink. Mush. Dave." His eyes landed on my last boy, and, if it was possible, his eyes narrowed even more. They looked like little cracks cut in his face. "…Brooklyn."

            I kinda stared at him for a long while, trying to figure out how he'd learned about the name already. My face must've fell, betraying how I'd wanted to tell him, because he laughed. "I know everything that goes on around here, Kelly," he told me in a jerky, choppy tone. "Especially those things that regard my borough."

            Mountain emerged from the shadows, his bulky frame matching Brooklyn's size for size. "So you gonna change the name?" he asked.

            "Shaddup, Mountain," Spot snapped. His eyes had come back to my face, and they didn't even flicker in his thane's direction. (Thane is a great word, huh? Davey taught me it yesterday.) He just stared at me, eyes unblinking. "So you gonna change the name?"

            Mush had to stifle his laughter, which was _not_ a good thing for us.

            "Oh. You think I'm funny." Spot's voice was humorless.

            "No!" Mush gulped. "I just… I just…"

            Spot rolled his eyes and turned away. "Are you changing the name?" he repeated.

            I shook my head. "No," I answered. I was really confused by this point. "Why would we change it?"

            "Because!" Spot banged his fist on his knee, and I'll be damned if there wasn't a deep purple bruise there the next day, he hit it so hard. "Brooklyn is not your name to be giving out!"

            I lifted my chin. Here's some free advice as I tell this story: never lift your chin to Spot Conlon. "This is America, Conlon. I can name my newsie anything I want."

            That did it. Spot snapped. He jumped off his throne (which collapsed fantastically behind him, I might add—I told ya it wasn't stable) and raced up to me, so that he was staring into my eyes from five inches away. Of course, he had to look up at me, 'cause he's short, but believe you me, if you think that short people can't be scary, you've never been face-to-face (or, in this case, his face to my chest) with Spot.

            Blink cleared his throat. "Nice visiting you and all, Spot, but we should be going. C'mon, Jack, that guy's gonna want his cart back. And Skittery—"

            But neither me or Spot moved. He didn't want to, and I couldn't have muscled myself out of that glare if I'd tried. "Now, I believe in a fair fight," Spot said slowly. He spit on me in the process, but I pretended not to notice. "So I'm gonna give you… ah, two weeks… to train up this…" He didn't even give a word for Brooklyn, but looked over at him distastefully as if to show me just what he meant. "…into a fighter."

            "A fighter?" Brooklyn squeaked, speaking for the first time.

            "And then we'll put him up against… me."

            Blink and Mush turned and began running back for the safety of the cart, while Davey hid under Spot's throne, crying. Brooklyn fainted. And poor me, I was sweating up a river standing there in that hot room in my cowboy hat.

            Yeah, yeah, exaggerating again? Me? Nah. I really _was_ sweating up a river in my hat. Spot should really look into getting some windows.

            I really don't even remember much more about this scene, because it all smears after that. The next thing I knew, I was back driving the cart back to Manhattan. And for the first time since the strike, I was back to being scared of Spot Conlon.

            Damn slippery little son of a whore.

            How in the hell was I gonna turn my scared new newsie into a fighter who could rival Spot?

            Your guess is as good as mine was.


End file.
